Thursday, May 26, 2016


It was a crisp autumn morning. A sea of flannel and Carhartt covered the field. It had been cleared of its crop recently, the corn harvested. In the early morning light, hunters gathered, the fall air of Colorado showing itself on the breath.  Anticipation also hung in the air. This was the first time all season that the hunters would be able to raise their rifles to fire the polished steel at the migratory geese that pass over Colorado.

I stood at the edge of this group of men. They in their flannel, me in a Wal-Mart knockoff of an OP Ski jacket. It was too large for my slight frame, as the jacket was a hand-me-down, twice removed. I held my rifle in proper stance in the crook of my arm. At twelve years old this was my first trip out. To the field, with the men of flannel. The thought of pulling a trigger, and possibly killing a beautiful creature sickened me. So much so, I had not slept a wink the night before. Throughout Hunter Safety Class, the training class my Father said would “toughen me up” I asked, “why do we want to kill innocent animals?” The teacher shaking his head explaining a Copenhagen infused version of Makumba Matata.

The other boys in the crowed, all seemed excited. The opportunity of finally being able to use their steel sticks of death was all they spoke about. I slowly side-stepped away from the other kids. It was a church event, so a long history of not being “one of the good Mormon boys” was already established. It seemed like hours had gone by since my Brother and I were dumped off in the field, as our Father wandered off to speak to other Bishops from other Wards.  

As I waited for geese to rain from the sky, I began to let my mind wander. It wandered to the very first time I saw a marching majorette in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. One day I was going to be the first male, professional majorette. That was going to be my profession. Majoretting.  Having everyone focused on me.  As I stood in the field, I decided to practice my skills. Using my rifle as my baton. I began to spin my rifle in my hand. Just as I got the feel of the spinning rifle in my hand, my concentration was broken with a loud, “Brother Bennett!! Brother Bennett! Your Son…..!!!” I looked up to see several people, backing up from me and calling for my Father.  My father appeared from the crowd of flannel; running over and grabbing the gun from my hand in mid-swing.

We marched to the truck as my Father screamed. How could I do such a thing after my costly training in Hunter Safety class. How could I embarrass him in front of his church? I screamed back that killing beautiful birds was just wrong. As he slammed the truck door, and expelled me from ever joining church events, both my Father and I learned a lot about each other. I would never be the Son he wanted. He would never be the Dad I needed. But, I would grow up to be the first-best male majorette in the world. That would teach him.

Saturday, May 21, 2016

That Time I was Coached

It was spring time. When I lost my virginity. Well, the first time it was Spring as well. Kevin Allen and I, were rummaging around a pile of tossed out items left behind from tenants who were evicted out of a house next door to Kevin. Pulling open a box, the sun just beginning to set behind one of Colorado’s famous “fourteeners” the local nick-name for a series of mountains surpassing fourteen thousand feet tall. From our small town these mountains were on the edge of the world. The box gave way, and Kevin and I peered into the box. The golden-setting sun highlighting a naked man’s torso on the cover of a porn mag. A gay porn mag. We both attempted to play it cool, yet this was difficult as both our hearts had stopped beating. It wasn’t long before we sat in his bedroom viewing the stack of magazines noticing the rising bulges in each other’s jeans. By the time it was completely dark out, I was welcomed inside of Kevin. Forced deep inside of him to scratch an itch he had just realized needing scratching.

It was also Spring when I lost my “other” virginity. Just last Spring to be precise. From a dashing smile on a rugby player. Built like a brick house, solid in build and mind. He corrected me, quickly when we began to chat. “Not rugby, I play Lacrosse. A coach actually.” He said with a solid voice that made me melt. I then knew how Lacrosse coaches were supposed to sound. He was a straight-up and grounded man. He was straight-up too, about being Trans.

It was in my bedroom when I pulled the tee-shirt from his massive frame. The cotton of the shirt didn’t stand a chance against his rippled and veiny biceps. I stuttered a little. Just as I had done with Kevin. Imagining the unknown. “How would I do this?”  With Kevin, it was easier. I knew all the parts; they were the same as mine. I knew I wanted to be inside him, I knew how to accomplish the task. But…. with the Coach, I… had never seen, I mean not in real life… a vagina. “oh god.” My eyes darted everywhere. “Just relax.” The Lacrosse Coach said. We’ll take it easy. This was unfamiliar to me, as I am always the one in charge in the bedroom. Me the one to ensure my partner to relax.  Now I wanted to be the one in charge, but had to listen for instruction.  I listened intently to how the device worked. I practiced. The Coach praised me for picking up so quickly, assuring me I was a natural.

It. Was. Amazing. I finally figured out what the fuss was all about. Why those vagina things were so popular. Of course, only if they’re attached to a fireplug of a man.  I mean, it truly helps if your vagina is attached to a solid muscle-bound Lacrosse player. If you’re gay, and had no intention in ever seeing one in real life.


Monday, May 16, 2016

New York

The most terrifying feeling in the world is the moment when the plane touches down.  You are gracefully sailing through the sky inside a metal tube, then suddenly you're jarred forward as the retro-boosters, or whatever they're called, instantaneously jerk you forward as the plane attempts to land.  You feel the rubber tires skidding out of control, attempting to gain traction. A deafening metallic screech fill your ears. The floor underfoot feels as if it will tear away any second.

Every time I fly, I dread this sensation. Yet, I would never let this terror, as I see it, stop me from flying. Even though every time I take an airplane trip, I have night terrors for weeks. It's simple to understand that you can't have a vacation. A trip via airplane, without this 60 seconds of absolute soul scratching terror. It is the good stuff that happens on vacation you have remember.  The bad part, fades away.

It's been a week since I took a plane to New York. The purpose of the trip was to attend a reception for my ex, Dalton. A wedding reception, for his wedding to his partner. Who he married. He with his new, me with my new. Although; is wasn't that long ago the it was he and I getting married. Well, long compared to the life-span of a Great Dane. If we had received a Great Dane as a wedding gift, Duke, as we would named him, would probably, even with the best veterinary care, died four years ago. But, short compared to my memory.

Please don't get  me wrong, I am not in any way pining away for a relationship from ancient history. It would be like me wishing I could wander the halls of The Great Library of Alexandria. Nor am I discontented. I have finally found someone to whom I mesh with in an astounding amount of layers. So, I bought a $700 suit and showed up on time. My hand in the hand of this amazing individual. What I am asking is, can you imagine standing up in front of your family and friends and make a promise for ever and always, then live long enough to see the other half make that promise to another.  As the reception began, I began to hear the lowering of landing gear; quiet at first, then louder. Know-one else in the reception hall seemed to hear it. Suddenly a thud.  I was thrust forward as shaking rocked the room.  Every word; every speech, drowned out by a mechanical screeching sound. Rubber tires attempting to gain traction. My heart being stopped as it gets forced out of my chest. Then... the tires get traction... The room slowed and the mechanical scream subsided as quickly as it started.

I fear landings. More than I let on. They terrify me. They leave me a trembling child. Yet, if I avoided the landing, I would miss sailing through the sky.  I get enormous joy knowing that Dalton is truly happy. That I shared a small part of his affirmation to Brian, legally his husband. The bad part will fade away.